


sergeant

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM elements, Breathplay, Choking, D/s, M/M, Oral Sex, a moderately unresolved/open ending, both of these men are undeniably dangerous, not really SSC, potentially unhealthy coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man calls him <em>Sergeant, </em>and it hurts -- it sears an acidic hole right between his ribs. He lets the feeling burrow inside and <em>wills</em> it to take hold, to burn and settle and scar. It’s <em>perfect</em>. He wants the man to say it again, again and <em>again. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	sergeant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercuryAlice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryAlice/gifts).



He could say _this looks bad_ , but that’s only a phrase he’s picked up from someone he’s still learning to call a friend: it’s not his own.

This man underneath the cool metal of his fingertips isn’t his own either, though, so maybe it works.

The man calls him _Sergeant,_ and it hurts -- it sears an acidic hole right between his ribs. He lets the feeling burrow inside and _wills_ it to take hold, to burn and settle and scar. It’s _perfect_. He wants the man to say it again, again and _again._ Hell, he’s good at provoking; he’ll figure out a way to make that happen. Barnes has always been good at manipulation, in any of his incarnations.

Reflections of headlights from passing cars mottle the walls of the safehouse room whenever they pass. Contrasting whites, yellows and reds of the lights make everything seem harsher, sharper, and far more dangerous, venomous. Not to mention more _tangible_ : something he is infinitely grateful for. It’s gotten hard to tell, sometimes, what’s a memory and what’s real. Everything is fleeting and abstract; he can’t even trust his sense of touch anymore. Even that lies. Everything lies. But the man, the Agent, he is solid underneath Barnes’ hands. He is firm and _alive_ \-- burning with possibilities and desire. 

The man is dangerous. 

And that is exactly what Barnes was looking for -- someone dangerous (just like him) but in a completely different way. The Agent is deadly, but not venomous or malignant like Barnes considers himself. No, he is well-toned muscle and lethal force tucked inside of a non-descript and extraordinarily ordinary suit: he is the embodiment of violent deceit. And it is _perfection_.

Barnes bites down on the pale, freckled skin of a neck until the whisper of _James_ becomes a dragged out **_Sergeant_** once more, punctuated by fingertips that dig into the exposed skin at his waist. The tendon between his teeth shifts once, twice, before he releases, admiring, for a moment, the imprints left by his own teeth. Barnes _likes_ leaving marks, little snapshots of places he’s been for others to remember. They are an important balance to the scale, because he is never left with any marks of his own -- his skin doesn’t bruise, doesn’t bleed (for long), doesn’t scar. Every morning, he is left with nothing. A fresh start. When the dawn rises, he can never be sure what he’ll be left with: his memories, now, are so mercurial. 

They shift again, as they have been doing since they pushed their way into the bedroom, and it’s a long beat before he realizes that the Agent, the _man_ , has him pressed against the door, his back arched against cool paint. Hackles rise and instinct flares dangerously before he bites down on it quickly, harshly, and lets himself fall backward, back of his head hitting the wall. He has to respect the fact that the Agent didn’t even falter when Barnes stiffened momentarily, even though they both are well aware that metal arm could snap a neck in half a heartbeat. Not a flinch, not a misplaced breath -- only a steady presence pinning him against the wall. Barnes doesn’t give in often, but he’ll play easy for a worthy opponent. 

And _damn_ , is the man worthy.

He finds Barnes’ pressure points and _presses_ until it aches all over -- just as he had done with his words earlier, which was precisely how they ended up here. Which is to say: the Agent is perhaps a better manipulator than Barnes fancies himself, which is impressive. 

“On your knees, Sergeant.” The order is in a clear, crisp voice, and the practiced tone of authority is unmistakable. And it is absolutely _undeniable_. 

Barnes sinks to his knees before he can even consider doing otherwise.

Fingers snake into greasy, knotted hair, and urge him forward -- he’d have been pushed off balance if it weren’t for years of training preventing him from ever being taken off-guard. He doesn’t rise to the bait and steady himself with his hands, because that would be _cheating_ \-- instead, he just lets himself fall, face first, against the warmth of wool herringbone stretched across one of the man’s well-muscled legs. He doesn’t argue against the fingers carding through his hair for a still and quiet moment.

They each take the slowly lingering seconds to breathe.

All he wants is to grip against the man’s thighs with his fingers, to leave ten perfect bruises behind in his wake, purple and needy, but he keeps his hands steady to his sides, as if it was an explicitly stated order to limit himself. It isn’t -- but he gets a startlingly pleasing **_good boy_** _,_ from the man anyway. As if the man knew what a trial it was. The gentle fingers trail close to his ear, which is just enough of a push to have Barnes turning his head at the subtle order and press his face against the bulge three inches to his right. 

There is no ceremony here. There are no manners telling him to keep it clean or precise. So, he settles on the opposite: mouthing at the cloth until it becomes damp with his own spit, tonguing around the warm shape underneath the wool that scratches against his tongue. The man doesn’t seem pressed for time -- doesn’t rush him forward or press any harder at the back of his head. No, he seems to be enjoying himself and Barnes’ lack of finesse, despite his silence. 

Barnes stays silent too, save for huffed breaths against damp cloth.

The man is the one who finally gives, who pulls Barnes back for a moment with a fist tight in his hair. He lets go and frees himself from the confines of his now saliva-slick pants and lets them fall to the ground, taking his trunks unceremoniously along with them. Barnes waits patiently for one breath, then another -- eyes focused and determined. Balances on his knees, doesn’t falter. 

He can _feel_ the man’s practiced smile in the air, even though his eyes are focused forward and not upward. Another still moment passes -- perhaps just the man _testing_ him, putting him through his paces, asserting his dominance over the situation. The finally Agent relents with a quiet but firm, **_go ahead_** _,_ his fingers drumming once on the back of Barnes’ head. It’s the only order he needs to hear. Can’t stop himself from surging forward -- the instinct to leap first and look later has been ingrained in him since birth. Nothing could cut that out -- not years of military service, not unregulated drug experimentation, and not even copious brainwashing. 

He throws himself into these things with fervor, with a heat that is only rivaled on the battlefield, with his hands bloody and his lips curled upward, the smell of gunpowder in his nose. This is absolutely no different.

No hands help guide the man’s length between his lips but it happens regardless -- and Barnes isn’t positive who was in charge of that movement. He’d like to think it was him, that he was the one who made the final decision -- but it is equally steadying to think that it was the man who orchestrated all of this, who finally _let_ him. 

That’s what this is, in the end; a well orchestrated scheme to have his power taken away from himself by someone worthy. Someone who will guide him and steady him and help him. When the Agent’s hand snakes under Barnes’ chin and grips his throat tight, bent at the waist with little effort to make that reach -- he knows he’s made the right choice. The fingers trace over his jawline before they tighten and he takes _that_ order to cue too. He knows the wordless command to pick up the pace, to be less careful with his teeth against sensitive skin -- neither of them expected meticulous safety from this -- and so he _goes_. He falls into the movement, neither repetitive nor unsteady, guided easily and effortlessly with that careful press of fingers against his windpipe. 

He takes a breath and finds he cannot properly breathe.

The realization should spook him, should have him careening backward, following every self-preservation instinct he has. 

It doesn’t. 

He nearly chokes, trying to take in another breath, but only keeps going.

Sometimes, he thinks linearly, mechanically. It was ingrained in him for seventy years -- a hard habit to kick. That’s fine. Delineating his thoughts in bullet points, in numerical order, works for him. Point A to B to C to someone bleeding out on the ground with the Soldier disappearing into the shadows. So -- it’s not a hard step of logic to go right from acknowledgement into _acceptance,_ when he can feel those strong fingers constricting his steady breathing. It’s so deliberate and planned, and it cannot help but feel like anything other than the next step.

The man knows what he is doing. Not that Barnes ever had any doubts to the contrary, of course. He only lets his fingers tighten for long enough for Barnes to crave oxygen like Bucky used to crave tobacco as a teenager, for him to get sloppy in his movements, unpracticed. Then -- he loosens his digits, liberating Barnes’ windpipe for enough time that the man on his knees can take in a lung-filling breath or two. He alternates those down times between letting his hands linger loose around Barnes’ neck and running them through James’ hair, telling him he’s _good, good, good._

Barnes picks up the pace of his movements -- not only because of the increasingly-praising tone of the man’s voice, the way it growls and settles low in his gut, but also because of his own sense of urgency in the situation. He _needs_ this. 

The man is firm, decisive, and _kind_. He knows; he is omniscient. 

He is so kind, so perfect, as he wraps his fingers once again around James’ neck, calls him **_Sergeant,_** tells him to _hold steady_. The grip is less measured this time, much more firm. If he could bruise, his neck would be black and blue. The thought that maybe it is, if even for the briefest of seconds, is enough to draw a single groan from him and pull his eyes closed in imagination. His movements are not so much halted by the rough grip but also harmonized with thrusts. He cannot breathe, but he hasn’t felt so alive and alert in days, months, decades. The backs of his eyelids swarm white, red, white again, then black. The man falters a fraction of an inch and Barnes knows exactly when to press forward despite his lack of oxygen, knows when to coax the muscles of his throat to contract around him. Knows to swallow him down when he is finished. Knows to _hold_ , because the man has him steady.

Suddenly, he can _breathe_.

His lungs fill with cool air, clamoring for oxygen, and he cannot help the involuntary coughing that escapes him. The rush is almost instantaneous and for a brief second he misses the hands running soothingly over his hair, pulling him to the other man’s chest. At some point afterward, the Agent had dropped to his knees to join him -- Barnes missed it. He tells himself to lament that later. Later. For now, he cannot stop the way his body blindly leans against the man, seeking his warmth and his soothing touches and sounds. He years for them and for once does not come up wanting.

Eventually, his breathing steadies. The rush calms and leaves him serene. The words subside, but the touching remains for long minutes, Barnes’ face pressed against the warm cloth of a cotton shirt.

\-- 

The man is gone now. Or -- not so decisively gone, but simply not _there_ at that very moment. Absent. He wandered off in a lazily buttoned dress shirt and threadbare sweats with a familiar logo, most likely in search of a glass of water, as Barnes can hear ice cubes clinking together from the kitchen [ten feet out the bedroom door, fifteen feet down the hallway, twelve stairs, a ninety degree turn, and another eleven feet until feet hit tile].

He reaches down to his feet, picks up the tie that fell to the ground at some point in the past few hours [1.7 previously]. It's silk, expensive. A thumb over the smooth fibers reveals no secrets, which yields no surprise. He expected nothing. The colors are muted and dull and they echo the stare that the man leveled him with the first time they were in a room together for more than five minutes. For three seconds, he lets his fist clench around the expensive cloth, lets the fabric crumple in his hands -- ruined, for the moment. Cathartic, maybe. Destructive: always.

When the man returns with two glasses of water, condensation dripping from the sides, the window is open and Barnes is also gone (the tie tucked safely in his pocket).

 

**Author's Note:**

> i have no excuses, nor do i wish to offer any.


End file.
